Sideways

by Rex Pickett

  Jack, naturally, drew a different lesson from his visit to San Simeon. To him the place was magnificent, a sultan’s majestic pleasure palace, an ultimate expression of one man’s brilliantly hedonistic vision. Worth every penny if you could afford it.

  “I don’t deny the place is beautiful,” I said as we bounced along in the bus heading down the hill back to the real world. “But is that how you would spend your millions if you had them? What’s its ultimate value except to impress others?”

  “Exactly,” Jack said. “The man was a lonely motherfucker. Probably didn’t have a lot of friends. This was a way to meet people.”

  “What a hollow aspiration. All facade.”

  “No, it’s not. The people came, didn’t they?”

  “They came the way people come if you bust open your wine cellar and uncork your finest Burgundies. That doesn’t mean they’re your friends. They probably laughed behind his back when he went to fetch more Beluga.”

  “And kissed his ass,” Jack said.

  “The guy was supposedly monogamous.”

  “So? Wouldn’t you want to live there?”

  “No,” I insisted.

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Why?” Jack asked.

  “Because I have a sneaking suspicion I would go mad living the life of an eternal sybarite?”

  “This from a guy who takes intense pleasure from good wine.” Jack broke into laughter. “You’d live there.”

  “Yeah, but what would I write about?”

  “What do you write about now?”

  “Failure and redemption.”

  “Okay, so you would write about wealth and power. Something people might like to read about. Instead of your desperate little pathetic antiheroes.”

  “I think they ought to tear it down,” I said, folding my arms petulantly across my chest.

  “It’s pure Americana,” Jack countered.

  “They’ve got hundreds of places like that in Europe. And more impressive.”

  “Exactly. But only one here.”

  “True. But it’s just such a fucking eyesore.”

  Jack leapt to his feet, whirled around, and addressed the rest of the bus: “Does anyone on this ship have a cocktail? My friend here needs a drink.”

  The tourists stiffened with alarm and sat stony-faced, exchanging clouded looks with one another.

  “Sit down, Jackson,” I said, tugging at his shirt.

  “Wine cooler?” Jack tried again, arms outstretched in supplication, the frustrated actor on his movable stage.

  The bus driver, watching the scene in his rearview mirror, turned around and shot Jack an admonitory look. “Sit down,” he said sharply.

  Jack sank back into his seat, sagging in mock defeat. “Oh, well, I tried.”

  “I appreciate the effort,” I said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Great improv.”

  “Thank you.”

  Back at sea level, the bus lurched to a halt with an earsplitting squeal of brakes. We filed off, tour-drugged and stiff. For a few minutes, we admired Hearst Castle one last time. In the high distance, shrouded in a light mist, it shimmered like one of those three-dimensional postcards, bewitched by wind and ocean smells. A replica of a monument to a forgotten civilization of shallow hedonists. Disgusting.

  I glanced at my watch, hatching an idea. “We’ve still got time to make Babcock.”

  Jack stared at me for a delayed moment with a mock glower. He wagged a finger at me, then broke into a broad grin, clapped his hands together and said, “Let’s hit it, brother.”

  We sped down Highway 1 in an ebullient mood and made it to Babcock Winery fifteen minutes before the tasting room closed. The affable pourer, a young man who told us he was studying to be a vintner, quickly broke us in on their Riesling, a dry Alsatian-style wine that was surprisingly complex. We continued on pro forma through the Sauvignon and Chardonnay, the less than impressive Pinot, until we arrived at the monster Black Label Cuvee. It was an inky, almost biblical, 100 percent Syrah with truckloads of ripe fruit and brambly tannins. I adored it, and so did Jack. We had abandoned the subtlety of Pinot for the pure unadulterated lust of Syrah.

  When we’d finished the sampling, the glow had returned to our faces and we were once again, however ephemerally, elevated out of our individual morasses. Wanting to demonstrate his appreciation to the pourer for keeping the

  We drifted outside and parked ourselves on a lone picnic bench. Situated on a gentle rise, Babcock is at the western end of the Santa Ynez Valley in the midst of an extensive network of vineyards which seem to unfurl in every direction as far as the eye can see. I did the uncorking honors and filled us both up with the perfectly chilled Riesling. The knockout Syrah, though tempting, would have been too heavy in the warm, early evening air.

  “This was an excellent idea,” Jack said, the heaviness and pertubation lifed from his voice.

  I held my glass of wine to the sun and examined the color. “Riesling’s perfect right now.”

  “Babs would like this wine,” he said, taking a sip.

  “She likes fruity whites, huh?”

  “Yeah.” Jack’s face clouded for a moment. “Something wrong with that?”

  “No. Not at all. I used to think it was indicative of an unsophisticated palate, lack of taste, but not anymore.”

  Jack narrowed his eyes and examined me for sarcasm. “But for you it has to be Pinot?”

  “I like all wines, but Pinot’s my favorite, yeah.”

  “What’s Victoria’s grape preference?” Jack asked.

  “Chardonnay,” I said. For a moment I pictured us together around the dinner table—fragrant roast chicken, a cold Matanzas Creek Chard, talking about films and books and what we were going to do that weekend … but I shook the memory loose as quickly as it had surged up in me.

  “Oh, that’s right,” Jack remembered. “Puligny-Montrachet.”

  “That’s good, Jackson,” I said condescendingly. “You’re learning.”

  He made a gun with his hand, aimed it at me, and smiled. His face was ruddy from sun and wine. Looking at his rosy countenance, I was inclined to feel that he was, for the moment, content.

  “In the beginning,” I prattled on, “it was Californian. Massive oak-redolent fruit bombs, malolactic up the yinyang, pure caramel candy and clotted cream. God, I got sick of those over-manipulated bottlings. I’m glad to hear she’s crossed over to Bourgogne Blancs with a little more harmonic balance of acid and fruit and less ML.”

  “She’d never drink Pinot, huh?”

  “Never. Not even blanc de noir champagnes once she found out they were made from red grapes,” I said, shaking my head critically. I knew it was what Jack wanted to hear.

  “You miss her badly, don’t you?” Jack asked. He looked at me with real feeling and waited for a response.

  I shrugged, not wanting to descend any deeper into that intimate labyrinth. Of course I missed her, but it didn’t matter. If I confided to Jack that I didn’t give a damn about drinking all those buttery Chardonnays and could just go back and replay the tape and somehow not be this sad mopey man, he would have chided me for not having the courage to move on. So I kept my feelings to myself.

  “What’s the real problem with Maya?” Jack probed.

  I blinked him back into focus. “I don’t want to get involved.”

  Jack sat back and scoffed, “You don’t have to get involved.”

  I eyed the wine in my glass and drifted back into reflection. “Yeah, but I would. Because that’s sort of how I am.”

  “If you slept with her, you mean?”

  “Something like that. It changes things for me. The equation grows murkier.”

  “The equation grows murkier,” Jack parodied. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I don’t want someone to start caring about me and then be disappointed again. Not as if there’s a reason anybody would.”

  “And you believe the
re aren’t any people who care about you now?”

  I looked away, embarrassed suddenly to meet Jack’s eyes. “I don’t want to bring any new ones into the equation,” I said.

  “Ohhh.” Jack reached for the bottle and refreshed our glasses with just a splash. The afternoon sun was angling toward the ocean and the pale blue sky was streaked with tattered pennants of pink and mauve. The fall vineyards surrounding us were blooming with green-gold foliage. A sudden gust buffeted up the Lompoc Valley and clattered the leaves in the shade trees, freshening the air. For a moment, with the wine soothing my crabbiness, with the wind and the vineyard landscape imparting a sense of tranquility, I felt revived, emboldened to slam the door on the past. I looked up just as Jack was unfolding his cell phone and punching in a number he read off the back of a business card.

  “Who’re you calling?” I asked, my momentary state of calm evaporated.

  Jack raised a finger to his lips to silence me. After a moment someone must have answered because Jack was suddenly sporting a flamboyant smile and belting out that hearty, infectious laugh of his. “Terra. Jack.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” I rose from the bench, trying to avoid eavesdropping on the conversation.

  “What’re you up to, beautiful?” “Oh, goodie.” “Is Maya working tonight?” I heard Jack say as I started to drift away. “Well, why don’t we have dinner over at the Hitching Post, and then maybe afterward if you …” His words faded as I sauntered off with the half-empty bottle of Riesling and gravitated down into the vineyard. Once out of earshot, I dawdled at one of the vines and inspected a greenish yellow cluster of ripe fruit. I picked a berry and sampled it. Couldn’t make out the varietal so I spit out the tart skin. I wondered how the vineyardists and the wine-makers could possibly determine, with their hydrometers and pH kits and simple olfactory senses, just what a grape will develop into two years hence.

  I glanced up when I heard heavy footfalls in the dirt and saw Jack looming, strolling toward me along the shallow trench in between the rows of vines, the sun a halo behind him.

  When Jack reached me he sheepishly extended his glass and I poured him a touch. We both sat down cross-legged on the dirt, concealed from view by the shoulder-high vines. “We’ve got to have dinner somewhere tonight,” he reasoned.

  “So, is this whole thing with Terra going to rev up again?” I leveled my eyes on his to let him know I was serious. “Because if it is, I’m splitting back to L.A.”

  Jack shook his head as if I were foolish even to let such a thing cross my mind.

  “One last pop before you strap on the monkey suit?” I pressed.

  “I don’t know if the rib’ll hold out,” Jack joked, gingerly touching his torso, then wincing.

  “She nice to you on the phone?”

  Jack shrugged. “Chick digs me, I guess, I don’t know.

  “You don’t think you’re playing fast and loose with her vulnerable femininity?”

  Jack drank some of his wine, mulling my question. “No. She knows what the story is. Guys from out of town on a weeklong toot. What the hey, you know?”

  “Because I really don’t want your wedding to turn into a remake of The Graduate.”

  Jack laughed with gusto.

  “What about Maya?” I asked.

  “Well,” Jack began thoughtfully. “She’s apparently a little confused about you. But I explained to Terra that she wasn’t alone in her … what’s the word I’m looking for?”

  “Ambivalence?”

  Jack toasted me. “Thank you, Webster.”

  I toasted him back. “Glad to be of service.”

  Jack smacked his lips after another satisfying sip. “Damn, that’s refreshing.”

  “Yeah, it’s opening up a little as it warms.”

  Jack looked at me. “I’m not going to feel successful about this trip unless I hook you up with Maya. You know that, Homes.” When I didn’t say anything, Jack persisted. “Don’t you want to get laid, man?” He made a fist with his free hand. “Feel her tight pussy grip down on you until you just cum molten lava?”

  I cringed at the metaphor. “How do you know she wants to sleep with me?”

  “Oh, come on, Miles. How many interesting men do you think they meet up here in Buellton? Huh?” He ruffled the hair on my head. “You’re a handsome guy. You’ve still got all your hair. You’re smart, funny, a little dark, but

  “Where’d you hear that? Babs?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “You want me to sleep with her to justify your cheating on your fiancée.” I looked up at him. His silence confirmed that my words had stabbed him in the heart.

  Jack wrinkled his brow and squinted against the harsh sun. “I don’t need any justification. What I’m doing here right now has no bearing on my relationship with Babs,” he said in defense.

  “Last night you were singing a different tune.”

  “Yeah, but that was right after I almost got offed and had a spiritual reawakening.”

  “Thank God for twisted boar hunters.” I toasted the air.

  Jack toasted me back. “Amen, brother. Amen.”

  “But you are going to spend the night with Terra?”

  “I’ll see how it goes. It’s a last hurrah, Homes, before I park my equipment in one garage.”

  “Depends how much grape we get in us is what you’re saying?”

  “Depends how much grape we get in us. Absolutely. That’s sort of how it always is with the two of us, isn’t it, Homes?”

  I smiled, finished off my glass, corked the bottle, and rose sluggishly to my feet. Jack hoisted himself up, too, and we started off. Shadows grew longer on the walk back to the car. I was glad that Jack was apparently coming to his senses about his marrying Babs, but I was growing tired of his pushing Maya on me. The plan for the rest of the trip was starting to come together though: I envisioned one last night with the Buellton girls, followed by a bacchanal

  The sky had colored a darker shade of blue by the time we hiked out of the vineyard. The crickets had already started their nightly song. Jack draped an arm around my shoulder. He was demonstrative with others in an easy affectionate manner that usually made me uncomfortable. But, usually after a little vinous readjustment, I didn’t mind.

  Back at the Windmill Inn we took turns in the bathroom, showering and shaving. We cracked wise, getting psyched up for the double date. Despite my reservations, I was genuinely looking forward to seeing Maya again.

  Around eight, we piled into my 4Runner and motored over to the Hitching Post. We had vowed to go light on the grape, to pace ourselves for the evening ahead. “No more nuttiness” was our drive-over mantra.

  The restaurant was hopping when we arrived. The smell of oak-grilled meat permeated the dark room. Terra was waiting for us at the bar, a glass of wine in front of her.

  “Hey, guys,” she called out as we approached.

  Jack and I claimed empty stools on either side of Terra and gave her a hug. Reassured now that he wasn’t going to blow off the wedding, I was more amiable toward her. I was also a little afraid for her when I caught that starry look she got in her eyes every time she gazed at Jack.

  “Hi, Terra,” I said, squeezing her shoulder. “You look beautiful.”

  “Thanks, Miles,” she said, charmed by my compliment. Jack shot me a quick look that meant I shouldn’t even think about crossing that line. I shook my head and laughed; the last thing I would ever do is share a woman with Jack—at least not knowingly.

  “What?” Terra asked, glancing back and forth between Jack and me.

  “Nothing,” I said. “We just haven’t seen anyone as pretty as you all day and we’re kind of giddy.” Just then, as if on cue, Maya strode in from the dining room. “Until, that is …” I said as our collective attention turned toward her.

  “Hi, everyone,” Maya greeted us. She was wearing a black cocktail dress featuring a (good for the gratuities) plunging neckline. Normally I’m not a breast man, but this voluptuous presentation was easy
to get excited about—especially when she leaned forward over the bar and gently laid a hand on one of mine. “Hi, Miles, how was Hearst Castle?”

  “It would have been much more entertaining if it had been Hearst Winery.”

  Maya laughed. Little dimples that I hadn’t noticed before fissured her cheeks. “Glad you came,” she said. “I was hoping you would.”

  I blushed. “Got a glass of Pinot for us back there?”

  Maya threw her head back. “Charlie,” she called out. “A couple of Highliners.”

  Charlie poured two generous glasses of the Highliner, the Hitching Post’s high-end Pinot, barreled over, and placed them down in front of Jack and me. He winked at me over Maya’s back.

  I sipped my wine. “So, what do you recommend tonight, Maya?”

  She smiled. “Ostrich.”

  “Oh, yeah? Don’t think I’ve ever had it.”

  “Tastes like steak and pairs perfectly with the Pinot.” She straightened her lanky figure and drew a few “oh wow” stares from a couple of guys at the other end of the bar. “I’ve got to get back to the restaurant. See you all in a bit.” She pivoted, picked up a tray with a drinks order, and disappeared. An image of her mane of hair cascading over her half-naked back stayed with me after she was gone.

  Terra excused herself to go to the ladies’ room, but it was pretty clear that she was ducking out to confer with Maya about the evening’s itinerary now that I had shown up to anchor the foursome.

  Jack shifted over onto her stool and leaned into me. “Maya’s got it going on tonight,” he said.

  “She looks pretty hot.” I sipped the Highliner. “Too much woman for me,” I added, just to get Jack’s goat up.

  “If you don’t fuck her, Homes, I will.”

  “Why don’t you just have a three-way and I’ll go back to the motel,” I shot back.

  “Hey, Homes, what’d we talk about? Huh? Having fun, right? Let’s not self-destruct, shall we? Leave that for your next novel.”